lypophrenia
by Nerumi H
Summary: 'The corpses walk, and you feel them grasp at you, and refuse to call you Majesty.' / Romantic young royals and the fall of the kingdom around them. Hanna, of questionable intentions.


**.title.: **lypophrenia

**.summary.: **Romantic young royals and the fall of the kingdom around them. Hanna, of questionable intentions.

**.word count.: **5 692

**.a/n.:** for my great friend Steph uvu

**X**

_And she sings, my bird dressed in white._

_And she stings my arm in the night._

_I lay still; still I'm ready to fight._

_Have my lungs , but you can't take my sight._

_The walls caved in tonight._

**X**

Though you knew her for so little time, every movement of time circling Anna feels extended.

The memory is sluggish, every second handpicked and turned over like cold, meretricious stones. The two-step of your choreography had not yet found a comfortable tune – and so you had thought every instant over and over and over, until rhythm felled the both of you, and quicker than you expected, attentions turned to the crown upon your head and everybody else became white noise.

And therefore, in recollection of a time where she did not matter, you aren't sure if she vanished in an instant, or in a way so slowly that you were expected to catch her.

**X**

They are the same jewels that you wore before. The same fine materials, the same way that you smile. The same shadows that you step upon, though these ones are much easier to crush.

Under Arendelle's sun, they all feel so pleasantly elegant.

Even the same girl that you laugh with, dance with when the moon circles the courtyard, who illuminates your corner of a world (separated just for her from all the politics and power and honest fanged joy) with a sharp artificial sun – she looks different.

Though that may just be because her sister is dead.

(That means not a single thing.)

You lose time before the new painting in the library, one solely of you and the reinvention of your crown. How handsome is the man before you, how he emulates the preceding illusion of confidence under the glamour of modesty – almost laughably immature compared to who you are now.

You lose hours.

…

"Hans?"

You turn, to find your wife at the door, peeking in. She taps her fingers on the frame until you nod.

"They're – well, the townspeople, they're talking again. I got Kai to handle it for now, but they're asking for us?"

"What is it about, my dear?"

Anna takes a breath, finger pointing up, but deflates rather fast. "Um, well, I dunno. Same stuff as always, I guess. I just don't know what they expect _me_ to do about it."

_If they put their confidence in you, they're making a grave mistake._ She sashays up to him and winds her arms around his – her glance to the portrait is fleeting. The one of her father has been placed unceremoniously in a hall instead, and you suppose she's never really gotten used to the change, like they've displaced a spirit.

You muse pointedly, "Perhaps, if I got some specifications about what is going on – "

She giggles instead. "Hey, do you really trust me to listen when people start talking _politics_?"

You can't help but smirk as she falls into you a little more. "You as a queen, yes, but you as Anna, _never_."

Twitter, twitter. She spins you away from the painting, taking your wrists – the way she immediately mirrors your smile is endearing at the same time as it is profoundly satisfying, that you can tug her this way and that without even trying. You aren't even thinking of her. You aren't even thinking. You aren't here. It is so easy.

"Instead – instead, let's go riding!" she brightly suggests. "Sitron's been antsy lately – and, well, so have I. Sooooo – " Hand slipping into yours, she twirls slightly. "So yes?"

Your answers are never anything less than agreement, and so you turn out of the room, her tugging you along the way. You, in crown and tapestry of Arendelle.

You, in your suits and crown, which feel nothing like they did before when you _were_ nothing.

(They burn.)

(But this, too,

means not a single thing.)

**X summer X**

The sister doomed herself.

While Anna lay freezing (your kiss did not work) with her last memory of Elsa being one of danger, you ordered men to slit the queen's throat on the ice as she ran. You waited near the fringes – arrows spinning off course in her wind like weathervanes, but blades, heavy-handed and sharp, falling true. Blood sank around your feet. You think, now, that the water pulled from the fjord will always taste so vaguely like iron.

And while the little sister cried, you pulled apart sorcery that you yourself could not control, some magic lying in comfort and senseless words, and others in glamour that lifted from her skin the clutch of death. She didn't have the energy to be thankful – but that was alright. You didn't need that from her. You still don't.

(In her chest there is a kiss of shrapnel made of ice and burrows burrows burrows and peels her up inside and she complains of the cold)

Before the foolish warlock men could preach of True Love you sent them from the kingdom with hounds on their tails and not a single word. You don't even remember the way they ran.

Elsa, though – Anna will say her name and make you feel the shock all over again of seeing her dead, of the betrayal of Weselton's men, how you'd felt the fracture breaking open your own chest. You can't explain it, you tell her. It tortures me far too much, and the way you miss her, my dear, feels even worse.

…

Summer completes itself with a funeral lying in cold, ambivalent wait – the attendees either knew her not or thought her a witch, or was her sobbing frail little sister – and the shadow of the hulking mountain man at your door. You cannot threaten him away too soon. You let them fraternize like children, but you do draw the line at the reindeer.

**X fall X**

Weselton feels betrayed by the blame, and it is laughable. With your heart full of respect and wishing not to overexert Anna's grief with the extended ordeal of a trial, you had let Weselton and his goons go free, with no more than a termination of all pre-established trade agreements. It really gives you no trouble – you'd rather deal with men as mild-mannered as you than the tyranny of that weasel.

However, it does give you trouble when you receive note from Kai – Arendelle's trade runs thin. Arendelle's reputation sours and it is to the tinge of your name. This isn't to the maniacal laughter of the little man, perhaps, but it is to your frustration. You file it with other scrolls to deal with later.

…

While politics are not Anna's favourite, she does enjoy meeting the people of her kingdom. They already know you and hold you in high regards for good reason, but for Anna they had only heard small tales about the princess and only loved her because she existed to be loved. You smile, though, to hear good things about her from them.

In the height of fall you are at a peasant's grain field, Anna's dress an emerald wave soaring and bobbing through the plants as she races and weaves. Flecked with straw, yourself, after having chased her, you stand with the working men; to your throat rises a tale of how you once were a man of labour, too –

_Tactic for respect,_ part of you says when rising to the defense.

Anna ducks under the field for a moment, her strawberry-blonde hair doused in dusty flaxen until you can see her no more. She's playing with one of the farm dogs, you assume. You recall her telling you about castle pets when she was young and no one would speak to her – foolish, you think, animals don't speak either.

"We can discuss reform with you on another date," you say politely. "Don't misunderstand me, but we are really quite busy."

They understand.

…

Someone laughs among the fringes and you burn every word your brothers write you.

**X winter X**

Snow falls thick and unfamiliar from the Arendelle sky. If you didn't already know from Elsa's storm about the troubles snow brings, then you would be formally introduced to it by the lectures Kai insists on giving you at the turn of the season. You're really getting quite sick of it.

And on a day where you decide to tend to the files, you're greeted by Anna laying herself flat across your desk.

She falls back onto it, epitome of grace, a hand falling above her head and her impatient groan ultimately uncouth. Her back arches uncomfortably across stacks of parchment, and you save an ink bottle from being upset.

"Anna?" you ask, and force a little laugh that has, by this point, bred so naturally within you that it is practically pedigree. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she exclaims, her fingers trailing off the end of the table and her eyes hooked determinedly on the ceiling. She squirms, displacing papers. "Not much, anyways."

You're used to this by now – she just can't tend to her boredom. You'd offered getting her a pet after she'd attached herself to that peasant's dog, if only so you weren't in charge of babysitting, but she'd jested about spending more time with it than you and so you changed your mind, and that plan, like many others, now sits filed away. You say, "Do you want to go enjoy the weather?"

Her fingers twitch, her gaze softening but not wavering. It reminds her of her sister, doesn't it. You weigh your chances if you are to bring it up, what she will do. Answers, distressingly, don't fly to mind, and instead you tap your fingers against the desk and chew back a surprising flow of impatient words.

It's this goddamned weather.

"Anna, please. I'm busy."

"With what? All these papers do is sit here."

"I'm hoping to change that."

And she rolls over a little, and she murmurs, "Well… how? You know, Gerda tells me that they – they're _saying_ things…"

"The people?"

She nods jerkily. "Some pretty mean things. I know she doesn't want to tell me, but I have ways of knowing – " she crosses her arms and gives a smirk but you know it's fake, "_everything_ that goes on around here."

You have an answer. You have an answer to set this right, to shut up Weselton and Kai and the mockery of the people (you know they do, you know they do, you don't need a gossipy handmaid to tell you this). An answer sizzling at the ends of your fingertips and nagging in your head. She'd be so unhappy, and make you deal with her consequences.

You tilt your head along with her and take her hand. "I don't want my queen to worry about what they say." You tuck back her hair slowly. "Leave that to me."

Her mouth flickers into half a smile, but it is uncertain and kissed in cold.

(She'd be so unhappy.)

…

She receives her information like a parasite, feeding off the murmurs and the uproar. In the library, from her fingertips splatters snow, sharp enough against your face that you have a flicker of apprehension that she's her sister.

You turn away from the shelves, snow dripping off your hair, to see her in her outdoor boots and thick mitts and snow dusting her head to toe. She'd obviously been in such a rush that she hadn't dropped whatever asinine hobby had been keeping her out there, and now it's falling to your shoes.

She exclaims, "What do you _think_ you're _planning_!"

You can't really tell how angry she is. The rising red in her face and the bundled cloak makes her harder to take seriously. You don't care, in any case. This is your decision which you have aptly made.

You swoop over to her, pulling back her hood to touch at her face with your gloves. "Don't tell me you're worrying – "

"I _will_ worry!" She yanks her hood down by herself and wisps of hair come floating out of her loose bun. "Gerda says – she says you're trying to pass – to start – a _war!"_

She isn't screaming. She isn't exploding. She is tiny tiny tiny angry angry angry (worried upset) and that splinters something heavily guarded inside of you. You don't want to know how that woman found out. You don't care, in that instant, to unbury this catalyst of disaster, but instead you are focusing on how she is reacting, and how the last time she burst like this her sister nearly impaled a court.

(and she ran she ran and you didn't know where she was or how she would crumble your plan around you)

Your hand spasms to let her go, though your mind snaps to hold her down before she says another word – before she utters another attempt to criticize you and vanish behind it –

"You don't understand why, Anna."

You wish she'd be that obnoxious optimistic.

"Try me."

You take a low, shuddering breath, one you didn't know was collapsing inside you, and say, "This kingdom can never have another ruler like your sister. Another ruler who will run away from it."

Behind her head, the portrait gleams. You're aware all of a sudden how much you mirror her father. She's cold under your fingertips despite the red of her skin.

"I will stand beside my kingdom and do what is best for it. Do you understand?"

She folds, and paint melts into the shadow of the portrait.

**X spring X**

Men write letters and men respond to them, men that let the communications flit around your head and you listen and record. If you can be anything, you can be a tome detailing every single second of what circles around you, in shades of white and black and deepening reds. The fight has not reached here – you make sure of that. You used to work among the battlefield, and it is because of this that you know, better than anyone, the strategy of the Southern Isles.

"I can't do it," she says, and folds her knees up against the table. She will cheer for things that do not matter and fear sets her aflame but you think this must only be when she isn't locked in a room that will choke her in smoke. "I don't understand it, Hans, I – "

"I have it under control."

(you knew she would be unhappy.) You kiss away her worries until they stop echoing inside your own head in the tune of her voice.

…

When you leave the castle, a man calls you king, and trips upon the next identifier. You brush it off. He looks grateful.

From their fields you collect flowers for Anna (you know every kind she likes and you are meticulous in rolling the petals across your fingers to look for flaws). In a heavy silence the back of your mind is vibrating with information about everything going on right now, trying to compartmentalize it, flashing in your vision with increasing intensity. Pieces fall haphazard and you bend fleshy thorns until they break from stems.

They need you back at the castle.

You pull your gloves back tighter.

(They're losing.)

The war has not yet touched the grounds you walk upon, but the iron, you feel, runs deep among the grass. Smog low amongst the dirt, without need, only want. Greed turning about your ankles like a snake, seeping into the earth and echoing, echoing –

(he'd called you agdar)

You smooth back down a severed thorn.

You come home and give her new dresses and a dance in the moonlight instead.

…

A new painting is ordered. Anna can't sit still during most of it (you make it tougher by joking with her), but somehow the artist manages to capture everything right about her, even the miniscule smile across her freckled cheeks. The white, brutal slash peeking up from her neckline isn't painted, though, and you run your gloved thumb under her pale, flawless clavicle.

Instead of in the library, you instruct it be in the great hall. You often pass it and lose yourself – while Anna misses socks and dates and instructions and eventually all of her begins to be missed, she's still always with you, for that eternal stretch of time, smiling in ink.

**X summer X**

something is walking walking walking under the earth.

…

It's the ice harvester's fault.

You sign forms to shut him up.

…

This letter, you do not burn. You recognise the writing well, and it is without the self-important stamp of urgency, and so you do it the honours of being read. Your hands are steady all through to the end – your brothers have always tried to drown you in threats.

It's the condescending tone that bothers you.

They think you worthless – and it has been too long, far too long, that you remember that fact.

(Petty hatred does not plague men like you. Instead you find means to a victory; while they wait for your explosion you simmer invisible toxins into their domain.)

…

You watch the streets turn red while Anna sleeps; your days fold into each other like castles of cards until the moon holds a torch over daylight and the night keeps you pacing. The castle can howl, cold and haunted, like the ghosts of wolves or weeping men. You catch yourself thinking of the missing portrait when you hear it – you think she can tell of its existence, too. It is something that flashes behind her eyes, and strangles her laughter… Her frail giggles make you think of the day you first stepped in Arendelle, and how along the way, the way you never knew could happen, she was chipped away piece by piece by piece by her sister and the spells you put on her to rid the curse and you should have put a spell on her to make her never forget you.

"Hans?"

You don't know if you never want to upset her or never want her to be upset, and shut the curtains.

…

"Your highness, the Eastern fjord has been breached."

You sheathe your sword and kiss Anna goodbye. She asks about Kristoff. Instead of answering, you say you love her.

She cries when she is angry.

…

and it is creeping beneath your skin

**X fall X**

You remember when the main square was filled with grey and spotless snow, the wind curling beneath your collar like it aimed to choke. You remember the tracking of blood under your boots as you left Elsa's body behind, dragging your guilt through the beaten pathway, holding your heart to quiet its hysterical storm while you told Anna that you thought it had stopped beating.

You remember the busy milling of people in panic.

Now, they have nowhere to go. Nowhere to be.

Except to watch their king.

The uniforms in battle for the Isles were always tight and stiff, and so they do not fit your grip comfortably in the collar. You step forwards and let the men of your battalion retreat to the fringes – from their arms drops your brother, his knees crunching on the dried leaves and lathered stone, but head angled back at your hold. His blue eyes bore into yours, like an animal never seeing of a man before, with barbaric instincts to only attack.

You stare hard across the square, where a line of men stand shackled and guarded, and all hold your features but none hold your spirit. None will ever hold your spirit.

You will make sure of that.

You pull off your gloves.

"Consider this not a warning," you announce, and all listen, "for I will not give any further chances. My rule, you mock, but the power that runs currents underneath it, you will never."

Three brothers far away have nothing to do but glare. You cannot hear their voices. You stand alone and strongest, for once; even if they have stained your new world with their wishes, you will beat them back the way you have always wanted.

"You will never."

You slash your brother's throat and no touch of blood reaches your clothing, faces blanched and screaming freckled under incarnadine spray that hangs, frigid, in the air, for a moment long enough for you to remember every horror and every torture and every silence they gave you as it spills across the stones.

Blood runs hot across your fingers.

You drop the knife along with him, and the people say nothing.

…

Anna is not in the castle when you return.

You order handmaids to search for her (every corner, every nook, she hides like a child in play) and tear apart the rooms on your own. Her travelling cloak is missing. She isn't a girl for leaving notes. Something hot and sharp runs through your chest.

You don't realize you're leaving bloody fingerprints until a maid follows behind you, shaking, with a rag.

…

Anna is not in the castle

There is a shadow behind the replaced portrait and it slithers

…

You find her eventually, on horseback, around the rear of the castle just outside the property. She's with the mountain man, of course, and you don't care to ask where his reindeer has gone – seeing her again makes your pulse thicken and the day behind you completely vanish. You are counting seconds around her, milliseconds when she turns and locks eyes with you.

(you hate the look in her face)

"Anna. I was worried," you say. You don't step off Sitron, though the tome in your head says you should, she responds best to that, but you just don't. She watches your hands.

(they're clean)

You can feel Kristoff staring at you, and so give him the privilege of getting a gaze back. He doesn't know what to do with it, and you think it might be because of more than just the fact that he is under your rule.

"You're a tyrant, Hans," he snaps. Sitron tosses his head. You look at Anna, but she blinks slowly and leans into Kristoff's space (she should just goddamn run, then). "You'll kill this kingdom and you know it."

"Anna, it's almost nightfall. We should both return."

(she should just run like her sister until the fjords open up beneath her and swallow her up without so much as a scream)

You run the reins through your hands and realize they are shaking. Sitron is agitated, but you don't think he's sensing Kristoff as a threat. "Anna, please."

She seems unsure what to do with adult anger. She twists her hands between each other. Her cloak is shut over her icy scar. The earth shivers.

"Anna, I'm begging you."

Kristoff sneers, "Enough with your plots, Hans. Call off this war. Unless you plan on getting the both of you killed, too."

Anna physically skips a beat at that, and (you'll kill him just as easily he should know better than to antagonize) you turn Sitron around to emulate leaving. You're starting to get a headache from the stench of the city. You say, "I've had enough of hearing you. (I will cut your tongue from your skull) Find your reindeer pal, perhaps he'll listen to you pretending you know things you don't. (I'll have both your skulls on my wall) Anna. I am not forcing you, but I suggest you come with me."

(please, please, God)

…

You explain yourself to Anna in the softest tone you can manage. You have stopped shaking, but instead are plagued with a reticent cold, one that you remember the shape and feel of, but seems to melt in rivulets when set against the blood-drenched fire of your skin.

You regret ever thinking she should run or leave you. You want to explain this, in the bare, blistered corners of yourself where your control has poured away – childish wants and wishes again, like forgiveness is what you need.

You run your hand over her scar to remind her what she has now and what you will do for her and never, never will you harm her.

She only says, "We aren't fit for this, Hans. I told you I couldn't do it."

On the corners of your soul that feel your brother's blood the sharpest, you agree.

"That is why I will do all in your stead."

**X winter X**

The beginning of your tale of Arendelle began with Anna, and now you think it will end with her. You are starting to feel so ethereal in this castle; but thankfully, her shadow against the dungeon floor when she searches for you can make you feel like you still own this section of time, that no matter how hard you calculate it apart, you are a fixture as permanent and haunted as the cold.

It makes you feel particularly romantic.

…

The cold encapsulates the castle and turns stone to sharpened frost, banisters stick under fingers, curtains permanently drawn (the white light falls across her skin in a way that makes her look like she is about to cry). The aides are confused when you order the burning of your old portrait.

The canvas is ripped in three strips to easily curl in the fire, and in the course of eight days, you burn the first and last pieces with no one the wiser, though the ink makes your head ache brutally. On the tenth day, you tear the immortalization of your face and let the flames consume it. You expect to feel vindicated by the silhouette of Agdar in the ashes, but instead it keeps you awake for another night.

Anna complains of headaches and doesn't enter the library for an additional week. It gives you time to think. Papers pile up. Ink dries around unsharpened, uncapped cannula. Their whispers bother you.

…

"I think of Elsa when I see snow, now. I can't stop it."

"You do?"

"Sorry, I mean – I know she isn't the best subject to bring up, especially now."

"Do not apologize for that. Just know all that she once was, when you were young and happy. Do not let the cruelty of cold make you think of her."

(do not think of her.)

(do not think of her.)

(do not think of her.)

…

(do not think of him.)

…

When you see the fjord collapse under the weights of death and enemy ships, you touch lightly at your neck, and feel your breath catch hard, and your spine snap shift burst out of place beneath your skull.

Your brother's blood runs under your collar. The corpses walk, and you feel them grasp at you, and refuse to call you Majesty.

…

While the snow melts and the kingdom is on fire, Anna catches you among the masses out of the hall, and you analyze the snowglobe you'd given her in her hand faster than you notice the flush behind her freckles and the tears solid in her eyes.

"Where are you going?" you ask.

She says, in a voice strangled by its own intention, "I will defend my country, Hans. What will you do?"

"No, you won't. You'll run like your sister."

"I'll stay! I've thought about it for a long time, while you were – while you were gone."

"You can't," you breathe.

"Don't pretend you haven't thought of running, too." Her teeth grit, grip falling limp, and she begs, "You're scared, aren't you, Hans?"

You are not scared. You never have been. Since the first moment on this kingdom's shores, you were sure, living in undisturbed confidence that knew nothing of breaking. Even now, when you do not sleep, you do not tremble, and hate their words – your brothers will never touch you again, and you make sure to return the favour through the stench in the dungeons where they rot. You are not scared. You fit nooses like styles of cravats and wield the shadows like shields against how much you care about her.

She sees the answer in your eyes, and thrusts the snowglobe into your arms. She doesn't understand that she cannot close this chapter for the two of you when you still live together in ink and in your dustiest, bloodiest plans.

Possessed, you answer, "We will both die here."

A girl taught by your choking of emotions and the suicide of her sister, she says breathlessly, "I won't."

…

You consider the snowglobe for a long time after that, and realise, there is not a piece of your tale within Arendelle that does not whisper Anna's name, and there is not a single tone where it is not your voice. She is your queen. She is your royalty. She is the crown upon your head.

(she is just a girl.)

**X spring X**

_while you were gone_

while you waited days upon days over the deepening bloodstains, unsure if you were anticipating the rise or the disappearance of something

_while you were gone_

while you forgot about her in your head while something twinged uncomfortably in your heart

_while you were gone_

They take the castle when you are off the property. Cuffs over your wrists and Sitron gutted chest to haunch, you don't realize you were escaping until they tell you so.

…

"I won't speak to you."

"You can offer an explanation, dare you risk your lies be exposed."

"I won't speak to you."

"Who, then?"

You laugh around the blood and say, "King Agdar. I owe him."

…

They keep you in a cell at their base, and you smell the grounds of a land you dared to love for so long, the echo of the ghouls in your castle just across the mountain. Sometimes you can hear the Snow Queen screaming in her palace – at least, you think it is her screams. It could be the sounds of the men she murders now. She could be embraced by her sister until the both of them burst and your nightmare is over.

You wonder often how Anna is holding up. Your stomach twists at the thought. You feel her tiny wrists in your captive hands, and the pop of bones as your cruel, demented brothers drag her screaming from her childhood bedroom.

No – you were wrong. It isn't the Snow Queen, or the men she kills. It is Anna.

…

They make you remember too much, your brothers. You never want to go back there. You never want to remember. You never want to know, not ever again. You never want Anna to feel this, but so far away from her, you can feel the veins that tie you together, and the blood within them is gold.

…

One night, into the prison that they built up around you, they move under the torches with their shadows erratically snapping and stretching. You stare, thinking perhaps of a messenger come for them or for you, but then the flash of a skirt appears around the corner and everything suddenly vanishes into a single point – you know no longer what it feels like to thirst Elsa's blood, to hate the words of the sheep so much you would put all in danger, your distressed apologies for the drowned king and queen.

You know only her, and she has you shouting.

Anna is pulled by the hair into a cell that you cannot see, but all throughout it, she doesn't answer you.

…

her sister slips into the camp at dawn like a ghost made of moondust and loss and cradles her to sleep and lifts the scar from her chest but all she is to you is the stench of rot.

(but you are thankful)

…

They are not as theatrical as you, and for this you are barely grateful. It is within your own cell that they step forwards and install the fear best they can, though they must be unaware that you have lived this death every winter since you became king. They bring you to your feet, faceless. You are led out, and are expected to say nothing.

You feel yourself at the beginning again, young and sneaking away under your sickened parents' gazes with the invitation to the coronation, like some brutal thief. And crystal clear, you realize that on the shore what you felt from the air was not joy or prospects, but the foolishness of a younger girl, and the poison vial underneath your breastbone finally spilling open. You are what killed Arendelle, and you bow your head and quietly laugh.

You have always known this. The world is splitting open and your fantasies falling within it, and every second is skinned from your memory no longer with calculations but with enough of your suffered feeling that you almost gag. Empty, though, is it of apologies.

You near her cell – you hadn't seen her since she was brought in, but you just know that it is her there. She looks weathered and tired, tears cutting open her cheeks, but when she looks at you her fire has simmered down to desperation. Like you will still save her, and you will laugh and say you're sorry, and you're reduced to rolling around in a boat with a girl you barely met. And in there you will again feel trepidation and affection and the struggle of distance, but know it for sure this time.

(what ever, _ever_ made you think you wouldn't kill her, too?)

You are no fairy tale and she is no hope. It hurts more that she reaches for your hand through the bars, than the grate of the noose.

…

She still has the scar of ice.

If you kiss her, you wonder, now that you know the brand of poison that links the both of you and it is love and greed and ignorance,

would it make any difference?


End file.
